


try once more like you did before

by blamefincham



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Career Ending Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: Cam elbows him, rolling his eyes, and Brandon softens a little. “Thanks for coming, Atko,” he says, eyes locked on the dish he’s drying.He expects Cam to brush it off, or tease him a little, but Cam just says, “For you, B? Of course.” His voice sounds a little odd, but when Brandon looks up, he’s grinning like usual.





	try once more like you did before

**Author's Note:**

> I started to write this fic in fall 2017, or shortly before Dubi suffered a serious injury followed by an extreme amount of speculation in the press and frankly it was Too Real, so I put it away for a while. Uh, a long while. The point is, it's done now, thank god. The working title was "Chiquitita," after the ABBA song the actual title comes from.
> 
> All the thanks to Jay for his frequent praise of every five hundred words or so that I wrote, Jenny for reading this a billion times and lovingly unsticking me over and over, and Trin for the patient, thorough beta + helping me fix the ending.
> 
> Warnings: alcohol abuse.

Brandon knows better than to watch the video. 

But at this point, what does he have to lose? It’s not like him being afraid to get back out there is a concern, not anymore. And honestly, he kind of wants the last minute of NHL hockey he’ll ever play burned into his brain. 

So he sits in his truck outside the gas station and watches it on loop, about twenty times. Then he turns his phone off and drives out of cell service. 

—

Bobby’s the only one who knows where he’s going, because Brandon trusts his big brother not to come after him and to give everybody else just enough information that they don’t send out search parties. Their parents keep looking at him like he’s broken, but Bobby gets it. 

The cabin’s not a new purchase. He bought it when he signed his first big contract. Much as he enjoys being near his family in the offseasons, Brandon likes—liked—to take a couple weeks to himself to decompress at first. There’s a landline, but no cell service; electricity, but no TV. A kitchenette, a closet-sized bathroom, a wood stove, a futon, a table and chairs, and a lofted bedroom: the cabin’s more or less a place to keep his hunting and fishing stuff, and a place to sleep and eat when he’s not hunting or fishing.

It works pretty well for hiding from the world now that hockey’s done with him, too.

—

Nobody in town knows who he is, but he still wears a cap to the grocery store and the liquor store, tugged down low over his eyes. He struggles carrying his things, with his dominant hand in a cast and all, but he’s pretty good at giving off such an unfriendly vibe that nobody offers to help, either. Which is good. Brandon would probably yell at them if they tried. 

—

He’s not really sure how long he’s been at the cabin. Weeks, probably, but he stopped keeping track—what’s the point? Bobby calls to check in, but that’s mostly Brandon confirming he’s still not dead and a couple minutes of awkward silence. Brandon prefers it that way. 

Which is why the knock on his door in the middle of the afternoon is such a surprise. He’s been drinking—yeah, it’s pretty early, but when isn’t he drinking these days—and he’s not totally sure he’s not imagining it. Real or not real, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, so he takes another drink of his whiskey and continues staring off into space.

The knock sounds again. Brandon waits. 

Again, but more insistent this time. At this point it’ll probably be easier to just open the door and stare at whoever it is until they go away, so he drags himself off the futon and over to do just that.

The problem is, it’s not some random person from town selling something: it’s Cam.

Brandon stares at him. 

Cam visibly recoils. “What the _fuck_ , Dubi?” 

Brandon blinks. Cam could be referring to a lot of things: he hasn’t looked in a mirror in a while, but he’s pretty sure his beard and hair are longer than they ever used to be. He used to care about that kind of thing, but there’s no point anymore. The locals don’t care. 

Or, Cam could be reacting to the half-empty whiskey bottle Brandon was drinking directly from and so brought with him out of habit. Or maybe the jagged end of his cast where he tried to get it off one night when he was really drunk; Brandon sort of distantly knows that looks a little scary. 

Still, if anyone’s going to be saying what the fuck in this situation, it should be Brandon. Nobody’s supposed to know where he is, but Cam’s—here. Five hours from Anchorage, here. 

“Can you let me in, please? It’s fucking freezing out here,” Cam complains. Brandon supposes it is. He didn’t really intend to let anyone into his cabin…ever, really, but the hot-burning anger that brought him up here has faded into something colder, number. Cam can come in, if he wants. Brandon steps aside.

Cam does want, apparently, because he steps in. But as he steps past Brandon, he frowns, nose wrinkling. “When’s the last time you showered, bud?” he asks. Brandon shrugs. It didn’t seem important. 

Cam sighs. “Okay. We gotta take care of that, you’re disgusting. You got plastic wrap around here?” 

Brandon shrugs again, so Cam goes to dig through the cabinets of the kitchenette. Brandon considers asking Cam what he’s doing here, but it’s harder to talk to someone face to face than grunt at Bobby over the phone, so. He doesn’t. 

Instead, he lets Cam do what he wants, which is apparently wrap Brandon’s cast in plastic wrap, strip him, and bully him into the shower. It’s a small shower, but Brandon’s lost a lot of bulk and Cam’s not a big guy, so they make it work. 

Cam washes his hair for him. Distantly, Brandon realizes it feels sort of nice. It’s hard with his hand, so whenever he did shower last, he didn’t bother—just stood under the water with his arm hanging out the door for a little while. 

Brandon feels a little more human after the shower—marginally more, anyway. He dries himself off, ignores the weight of Cam’s eyes on his back, and says, “What are you doing here, Atko?” 

It’s the first thing he’s said to Cam since he got here; it’s maybe the first full sentence he’s said in a week, and Cam doesn’t even dignify it with a response. “Want me to cut your hair? You look like you play for the Sharks.” 

Brandon snorts. It’s funny, even though he doesn’t play for anyone, not anymore. When he turns around, Cam’s looking at him, just as worried as Brandon expected, and he’s slow to cover it up with something approaching normal bro neutrality. 

“Okay,” Brandon says, finally. He doesn’t really give a shit about his hair anymore, but if it’s going to get Cam to stop looking at him like that, he can cut it if he wants.

—

Cam cuts his hair and trims his beard, and when Brandon catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he looks—more like he used to. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing. 

When they’re done, they end up in the living room, on opposite ends of the futon. Cam’s still _looking_ at him, and Brandon says again, “You gonna tell me why you’re here now?” 

“You really can’t guess?” Cam says, raising an eyebrow. “You went down and they took you straight to the hospital and that was the last any of us saw of you, Dubs. Management told us you weren’t coming back, but everybody’s worried sick.”

Brandon pulls his knees up to his chest. He wore an A for the Jackets for years, and that part of him feels guilty for abandoning his team like that, but it’s tiny in the face of the yawning chasm of grief in his chest. “I’m not dead. I told Bobby to tell everybody I wasn’t dead.”

“Yeah, and we don’t only care that you’re alive, asshole,” Cam says, prodding Brandon’s thigh with his foot. “Of course you’re fucked up about it, it’s fucking awful, but I don’t get how turning into a mountain man and ignoring everybody helps.” 

“It doesn’t _help_ ,” Brandon says, a bitter taste in his mouth. “Nothing _helps._ That’s what career ending injury means.” 

“I get that nothing’s gonna help your career, but what about you as a _person_ ,” Cam says, all earnest, as if any of them ever talked about—cared about—anything other than hockey. 

“What’s the _point_ ,” Brandon shouts. 

Cam rears back, startled. _Good_ , Brandon thinks viciously. 

“The point?” Cam says. “The point is we fucking care about you and we don’t want you to be miserable.”

“Well I _am fucking miserable_ ,” Brandon yells, hoarse.

“Okay!” Cam shouts back. “At least you’re fucking _talking_ about it!” 

Brandon gets up, intending to storm off, and then he remembers the cabin has a lofted bedroom. Getting up there at all with one useless arm has been an ordeal that he only manages half the time, and it certainly isn’t going to make for a satisfying end to this argument. 

So he storms off into the bathroom and slams that door instead. 

It doesn’t really help. Well, it helps for a couple seconds, in the immediate aftermath and when he can hear Cam sighing from the other side of the door, but it quickly stops helping. The bathroom is _tiny_ , and Brandon doesn’t have his phone because it doesn’t do fuck-all here, so…there’s not much to do.

Except sulk, and at least he’s good at that. 

He sits down, back against the door, and he gets a couple minutes to stare off into space without interruption before the door rattles. There’s not a lock, but that’s why Brandon sat where he did. He braces his feet against the wall and pushes, holding the door shut.

“B,” Cam says, exasperated. Brandon says nothing and doesn’t move. 

Cam could probably break the door down if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t. Instead he stops trying to push in on it, and after a minute, Brandon can hear him sit on the floor outside. He relaxes his legs. 

“How did you get away? I know the season is still going on,” Brandon asks, quietly. It’s not an olive branch, but it’s not a grenade with the pin pulled, either. 

“All-Star break,” Cam explains. “Bob’s going this year. He’s the only one been playing decent since…”

“That’s stupid,” Brandon says. “Only chance I have of getting my name on the Cup is if you bastards win it this season, so. Pull it together.” 

That one is an olive branch.

Cam takes it; he starts chuckling. “Maybe, Dubs. You gonna stop hiding from me in the bathroom like a baby?”

“Maybe I’m just sick of your ugly face already,” Brandon says, and it almost feels normal.

—

Cam’s only got a couple days—the break isn’t long—but he stays as long as he can. He sleeps on Brandon’s futon and complains about how uncomfortable it is, he empties out almost all of Brandon’s liquor bottles, and embarrassingly, he cleans the whole place one morning while Brandon’s still sleeping. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Brandon says, frowning down over the edge of the loft at him.

“It was gross, I didn't wanna sit around in it,” Cam says cheerfully, and that’s the end of that argument. 

He doesn’t just help Brandon with hygiene stuff, either. Cam chirps Brandon about how boring his cabin is until Brandon, cursing under his breath, agrees to take him on a little hike through the woods on his property.

They have to wrap a scarf around his cast to keep his hand warm, but once they’re out there, Brandon has to admit the bracing cold feels good on his face. He takes Cam around the edge of his property line, shows him the frozen creek and the deer blind and the hollow log where a bunch of rabbits usually shelter, and it’s…nice. Peaceful. He needed it. 

Brandon needed all of the things Cam brought with him, really, and he’s not sure how to put his gratitude into words without sounding like a jackass. He makes dinner the night before Cam has to leave, his mom’s chili recipe, and hopes that Cam figures it out. 

Judging by the way he bumps into Brandon every ten seconds while they do the dishes, Cam does. He also bullies the landline number out of him, despite Brandon’s protests.

“I’m not gonna bug you all the time,” Cam says, bumping Brandon’s shoulders companionably for at least the third time. “Just call every couple days, make sure you didn’t get eaten by a moose or something.” 

“Moose don’t eat people, dumbass,” Brandon points out, but he’s smiling. 

Cam elbows him, rolling his eyes, and Brandon softens a little. “Thanks for coming, Atko,” he says, eyes locked on the dish he’s drying.

He expects Cam to brush it off, or tease him a little, but Cam just says, “For you, B? Of course.” His voice sounds a little odd, but when Brandon looks up, he’s grinning like usual. 

—

The day after Cam leaves, Brandon’s in town buying groceries and there’s a little girl out front, trying to give away some puppies—cute little things with curly copper coats. He would have walked past her without a second thought, before, but Brandon bends down, and a couple of them run over inside their pen to lick the fingers of his good hand.

He squats there for a couple minutes, thinking, and eventually leaves with one. 

—

He names her Penny. She’s a great distraction—she has boundless energy, and she doesn’t let Brandon out of her sight for even five minutes. It’s a bit of a pain to have to shower with the door open, or carry her up the ladder to his bed inside his shirt, but Brandon was a little worried that he might slip back into his old ways once Cam left, and she helps with that. His life might be bleak and pointless, but that doesn’t change the fact that Penny needs a walk.

There’s also Cam’s phone calls—not relentless, but every few days, just like he promised. He deftly avoids any talk of hockey and focuses instead on stories about their teammates, which Brandon appreciates. He does miss them, now that he's not festering in his own grief so much.

One night, after Brandon recounts a story of Penny hilariously failing to catch a squirrel, Cam takes a breath and says, “Hey, so.”

Brandon waits.

“I told Fliggy where I was going, when I came up to your cabin for All-Star break. And I haven't told him much else 'cause I know you want your privacy, but…you know how he worries. I think he’d really like to talk to you, if you’re up for it.”

Brandon thinks about it. His initial, instinctual response is to hang up the phone, but…Nick was—maybe still is—one of his closest friends, and probably the most genuinely good person Brandon knows. He’ll handle it well.

“Okay,” Brandon tells Cam.

And if he doesn’t handle it well, Brandon can always just hang up then instead.

“Great,” Cam says, relief clear in his voice. “Lemme go get him.” 

There’s some quiet, then some indistinct murmurs as Cam holds the phone away from his mouth and talks to someone. Penny wanders over to nose at the fingers of Brandon’s bad hand, which is currently dangling off the edge of the futon. Despite just being a puppy, she somehow knows to be gentle anyway. 

“Dubi!” Nick says suddenly. Brandon sits up a little bit. “I miss you, you motherfucker, how’s it going?” 

It’s kind of a complicated question, but Nick sounds so genuinely thrilled to talk to him that Brandon can't go the snarky route. “It’s going, Fliggy,” he says instead. “How’re you?”

—

That's basically how things go for a couple months. Brandon stays away from the internet, even when he's in town and his phone would work. He reads all dozen books in his cabin. He takes Penny on runs twice a day and teaches her a few tricks. He answers when Cam calls every few days, and when Bobby calls every week or so, and even when his mom calls and tries to beg him to come home.

Brandon turns her down as gently as he can. He misses her, sure, but the thought of being in a city where people might know him, might know what had happened and he’d have to deal with it—it makes the panic claw at the back of his throat. It’s not an option.

Unfortunately, since the cabin is pretty remote and he’s basically refusing to leave it, Brandon’s rapidly running out of things to do. He spends the better part of a week trying to build a house of cards, except he’s shitty at it, probably because one of his hands is in a cast. But he keeps trying, and keeps trying—he’s always fucking hated giving up. But he gets one story laid out and then moves his hand wrong and the whole thing comes tumbling down for the hundredth time, and Penny lunges at one of the falling cards, starts trying to eat it.

Brandon’s wrestling it out of her mouth when the landline rings, which startles them both; Penny drops the card in surprise. It’s Cam, later than usual, and when he says “Hey,” he sounds pretty worn-out.

“Hey,” Brandon replies, cautious.

“Wish me luck?” Cam says, and that makes it click—it’s April, and that means…

“Luck,” Brandon says. He may be bitter, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish the best for his guys.

“If your luck doesn't work, you might be seeing me sooner rather than later,” Cam says, a passable attempt at his usual cheer.

Brandon raises his eyebrows. “Uh. You’re—coming here?”

“Somebody tells me Alaska is lovely in the summer,” Cam says, and Brandon can hear him smiling. “Sun up till midnight and way less horrifying wildlife—although if you stopped shaving again, that probably evens out.”

“Jealousy’s not a good look on your babyface,” Brandon says on autopilot. Then he clears his throat, and clarifies, “So you’re really…”

“Hopefully not for another few weeks, but yeah,” Cam says. “I do miss you, asshole.”

There’s a really embarrassing lump in Brandon’s throat. He swallows around it, which doesn’t do much good. “Thanks,” he says, gruff.

To his credit, Cam doesn't mention it. 

When they hang up, Brandon looks around his cabin, as if seeing it with new eyes. He hasn’t really picked anything up in a while, and though it doesn’t look as bad as it did when Cam came last time, it still looks pretty bad. It’s probably a small miracle Penny hasn’t managed to eat any of his other possessions. 

Brandon sighs and hauls himself off the couch. Cleaning’s as good of a use of his time as any. 

—

It’s less than a week before Cam shows up on his doorstep, the timing and the tightness around his jaw suggesting Brandon's luck didn’t do the trick. Brandon’s sad for him, but there is a little piece of his heart that’s glad, like, maybe he’s not so easily replaced.

He doesn’t say that. He’s not a total asshole. He just hugs Cam instead, and Penny jumps at his legs, and after a second Cam slumps into his arms and hugs him back.

“So this is Penny,” Brandon says, neatly sidestepping anything to do with the sport they’ve both devoted their lives to, and he doesn’t miss Cam’s grateful expression as he drops down to have his face licked by the puppy. 

“Hey girl,” Cam says, gentle. He scratches behind her ear and her tail thumps on the floor. “I shoulda brought Easton,” Cam adds, looking up at Brandon. 

“She’s little, though, maybe he would’ve pushed her around,” Brandon says, feeling a weird swell of protectiveness over this tiny thing he’s been entrusted with.

Cam smiles and straightens up. “Nah,” he says, cheerful. “Easton’s a teddy bear. If anything, she’d be the one pushing him around.”

Cam's face has gone well soft and fond talking about his dog, and…god, Brandon _missed_ him. He clears his throat. “So, uh. Where’s your stuff, or are you just here for a couple days and gonna mooch off me again?” he asks Cam. 

“Oh yeah,” Cam says, and he heads back out to the car he must’ve rented—a truck, because he’s an asshole subscribing to the stereotypes about Alaska. Not that they’re wrong, but.

Brandon follows him out in time to see him haul an enormous gear bag out of the bed of the truck. He whistles appreciatively. “How long you planning on staying?”

“As long as you’ll have me,” Cam says with a grin, and—Brandon can work with that.

—

The thing is—well. ‘As long as you’ll have me’ sounds nice, but practically, Brandon expects that to be a week, or two at the most. But Cam doesn’t leave. It’s just like his visit before, only the weather is better. Hell, he even makes the trip to Vancouver with Brandon when it’s time to get his cast removed, and that’s a good thing, because Brandon’s on edge about being in a city again and potentially being recognized. He doesn’t just wear a hat and glasses himself; he makes Cam wear them too, which Cam does with good grace. 

The doctor does one more x-ray, then cuts the cast off. It tickles, and Brandon laughs, which makes Cam laugh at him too, and then—the cast is off.

Brandon looks at his arm. It’s pale, but not a ton paler than the rest of him since he hasn’t been outside that much. His right forearm is smaller than his left, now, and the skin looks dry, but he can move his fingers. There’s a long scar along the back of his hand and down his forearm. He doesn’t try to move his wrist.

The doctor gets him a splint to wear when he’s not doing PT. It looks pretty similar to the one he wore after his last surgery, and he straps it on, trying not to think about any of this. The doctor’s rattling off some care instructions, but it looks like Cam’s listening to them, so Brandon doesn’t bother to.

Not until the doctor says his name, anyway, and then he looks up. “Have you given any more thought to my recommendation to see a sports therapist?” the doctor says, gently. 

“No,” Brandon replies, terse. 

“Please think about it,” she says, in the same gentle voice. “You’ve been going through a lot of changes lately, and it can’t be easy.”

Brandon blinks at her, his mouth a grim line. It’s quiet in the room for a moment, and then she admits defeat. “All right,” she says, and leaves. 

Brandon doesn’t look at Cam. He doesn’t want to know what his face is doing. 

—

They head back to the cabin the next day, and with the cast off, Brandon feels—freer. He knows his wrist movement won’t ever be quite the same, but as long as he doesn’t think about that, he can appreciate how much more convenient the splint is than the cast was. 

He takes advantage of this to take Cam and Penny for a walk in the woods on his property. He’d shown them to Cam when he was here before, but it was so cold, and this time they’ve been mostly sticking to shorter walks. But Brandon knows there’s a pretty decent hike with some great views not too far away, and it’s as good an excuse as any to get out of the cabin for a few hours. 

Brandon's been jogging with Penny, but Cam's been playing professional hockey, and so Brandon kind of expects to struggle to keep up with him. But Cam’s never more than a couple paces ahead of him, and he doesn't expect Brandon to carry on a conversation or chirp him for getting a little winded. 

They make it to the top and take a selfie with the view which Cam promises is just for the group chat. “Proof of life,” he jokes, grinning. Brandon doesn't argue about Cam sending it, but he also feels glad that his phone is off gathering dust somewhere. He's sure they'll get a bunch of chirps and a lot of the guys will say they miss him and—it'll be overwhelming. Better that Cam sends it, shows him one or two of the funniest replies, and Brandon doesn't have to think about it at all.

It’s late afternoon when they’re heading back, and Brandon’s stomach is definitely rumbling. So when they push through into a clearing that they’d seen on the way up, he says, “Wanna stop for a second, eat a little?” and Cam nods. Brandon loops Penny’s leash around a tree root and starts digging out their food. 

“What’d you make us?” Cam says, coming over to peer curiously into the pack. Brandon shoves him away, rolling his eyes, and Cam laughs. “I feel like Yogi Bear,” Cam adds. “What’s in the pic-i-nic basket, BooBoo?”

“God, you’re a dumbass,” Brandon says. So what if he made them a picnic—Cam’s helped him out with a lot of shit, recently, and maybe Brandon is bad at using his words, but he can make a damn sandwich and put it in a bag.

“Hey, you’re only running at like maybe 75% of your usual stupid shit talking level, so somebody’s gotta pick up the slack,” Cam says, scratching Penny behind the ear.

She makes a happy little noise, but Brandon frowns, hand halfway in the cooler bag. “What?”

Cam shrugs. “It’s understandable, like. You’ve been going through some shit. But you’re still a little fucked up, is all, and the only way I know to get you out of your own head is to talk shit."

Brandon pulls his hand out of the bag. "Are you doing therapy shit on me?" 

"Have I asked you even one time how this makes you _feel_?" Cam fires back. Brandon sighs and tosses him a sandwich, because he's right. Cam hasn't.

They eat in silence for a while, before Brandon balls up his sandwich bag and says, "How're you so good at this, anyway? I know I've been acting weird."

Cam shrugs. "You're still Dubi. So I just treat you like I would anyway. Not that hard."

He's being modest about it, but Brandon doesn't feel like pressing the issue, not when it's so quiet and peaceful in the clearing, the sun is warm, and Brandon's stomach is full. He tips his head back and closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the pleasantly drowsy feeling that settles over him.

Which is when he realizes that it’s _too_ quiet. He opens his eyes, and—Penny’s leash and collar are still attached to the tree root, but Penny herself is gone. 

Brandon’s blood runs cold. “Cam,” he says urgently, and Cam sits up, concerned. He notices where Brandon’s looking and his face falls.

“Oh shit,” Cam says, scrambling up. 

Brandon’s frozen, still staring at her empty collar. “Fuck, she’s—I don't know how long she’s been gone, there really are bears in these woods, what if—” Brandon says, but then Cam’s in front of him, offering him a hand up.

“It’s okay, B, we’ll find her,” he says, concerned but steady, and Brandon believes him. He takes Cam’s hand and pulls himself up.

They spread out, calling her name—Cam heads back up the trail, and Brandon heads down, so they can cover as much ground as possible. Brandon hears Cam’s voice getting quieter and quieter as they spread out, and for the first time in a long time he feels really alone.

Then, suddenly, Cam’s shouting, “Dubi! Dubs, I got her!” and Brandon’s running back the way he came. Cam, grinning and holding his dog, who’s covered in dirt and burrs but entirely unharmed, is a way better sight than the view at the top of the hike had been.

They get Penny’s collar back on (tighter this time), pack up, and head back. “Hey,” Brandon says, bumping into Cam a little as they start to descend. “Sorry I freaked a little there. Thanks for—”

Cam waves him off. “Man, no sweat. What are friends for?” Brandon bumps Cam again and flashes him a soft smile. He’s pretty sure he owes Cam a lot more than a ‘thanks’ at this point, but Cam doesn't act like he’s expecting anything, so Brandon guesses it'll have to do.

—

They go back to the cabin, and things are more or less the same, except now Brandon has to drive into town twice a week to have video calls with a physical therapist. His rehab is slow-going and it fucking hurts, too, and that makes him irritable. 

But he forces it down, because it’s his problem, not anybody around him’s problem. He buys some steaks at the grocery store, then drives back to the cabin and suggests to Cam that they grill for dinner. Cam agrees readily, probably because they’ve eaten just about anything either of them can cook on a stove three or four times in the past few weeks. 

It’s a typical early summer Alaskan evening: the sun’s still high late into the evening, even though it’s still a little chilly. Normally, this kind of weather makes Brandon smile, reminds him of being a kid and playing roller hockey in the street until way too late. But he can’t seem to shake the black cloud from his session earlier, and it colors everything until all he feels is jealous of that kid and his two functioning wrists.

It’s that moment that Cam chooses to say, “Hey, Dubs,” all cautious, and Brandon knows he isn’t going to like the next thing out of his mouth.

“I’ve been thinking, and…I think your doctor’s right. You probably should see somebody, like a sports therapist or something.”

Brandon closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “No,” he says, eyes locked on the grill, back to Cam.

Cam doesn’t like being ignored, never has, so he walks around to the other side of the grill and looks Brandon in the eye. “Why not?”

Brandon turns the steaks with his good hand, which is difficult even after months of the other one being in a cast, because he’s never been very ambidextrous. But he manages it, and then he says, “No,” again, firmer this time. 

“That’s not a reason,” Cam says. “I’m your friend, I’m worried about you—you hole up up here, won’t talk to anybody but me and Bobby, it’s not healthy—”

“And I’m a fucking adult who can make my own choices,” Brandon spits. “Drop it, already.” Brandon and Cam have been—bickering, a bit, the last few days, but that’s a natural side effect of living together in a one room cabin for weeks on end. This…this feels different. 

“ _Why?_ ” Cam says again, more insistent this time. “What are you afraid of?” 

That hits close to home, and Brandon clenches both his hands into fists, ignoring the sting in the wrist of his bad hand that causes. “Fuck you,” Brandon says, just barely keeping control.

Something in Cam’s expression changes, and he says, “Never thought I’d see the day when you acted like a coward.”

Brandon snaps. 

It’s not a conscious choice; one minute he’s standing behind the grill, and the next minute he’s punching Cam in the face—with his dominant hand. His bad hand. 

There’s not a lot of force behind it thanks to his atrophied muscles, but the impact still feels like fire shooting up Brandon’s arm, and he grabs his wrist, doubled over. 

“Shit!” Cam says, alarmed, and he steps closer, a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “Your hand—are you okay?” The anger’s totally gone from his voice; it’s a quick enough shift to make Brandon’s head spin.

“Fucking hurts,” Brandon manages, gritting his teeth, but the pain’s receding already. 

Cam sets a hand on his shoulder. “Do we need to go to—like, the hospital or something?” 

Brandon doesn’t shrug the hand off. The pain did a good job of burning the anger clean out of his body, and now he just feels tired. “No,” Brandon says, shaking it out a little. “It was just—a stinger, you know, like when you block a shot wrong and it’s the worst for ten minutes and then you’re fine.” 

“All right,” Cam says, not moving his hand. “I’m sorry, B, that was—I was way outta line. You’re right, it’s your business.” 

“I’m sorry for punching you,” Brandon says. “That was stupid.”

“Definitely stupid to do it with that hand,” Cam says lightly, “Although my face thanks you.” 

They both chuckle, quietly, and there’s a moment of slightly awkward silence before Cam says, “Oh fuck, the steaks.” 

Brandon laughs openly this time as Cam runs over to the grill to take them off before they get too well-done. They end up a little more done than either of them prefer, but—edible, at least. Which is good, because they’re both pretty quiet and focused on their food, in their own worlds. 

For his part, Brandon’s trying not to think about how easy it was for Cam to get under his skin. He pushes the last bite of steak around his plate a little until Cam kicks him in the ankle lightly under the table. 

Brandon looks up, and Cam’s grinning. “Up for a couple games of blackjack?” Cam suggests, and…yeah, maybe that’s exactly the distraction Brandon needs.

“Last one inside’s the first dealer,” Brandon says as he stands up, which is definitely not cheating. 

—

The next time he’s in town to call his PT, Brandon opens the email from his agent, six months old, with the names of a few sports therapists who’ve worked with other ex-NHLers, and sends a few emails. Then he gets right back in the truck to the cabin to avoid notifications about any responses, but…progress is progress.

—

He doesn't tell Cam. He figures he’ll have to once he starts having appointments, but—then one day they’re fishing, and Cam bumps his ankle into Brandon’s and says, “Hey, man…I think I need to head out, next week or so. Gotta get…y’know.”

Brandon does know. It’s June, and Cam needs to start training, to be ready for camp. He fights down his first response, which is storming off, and his second, which is begging him not to go. Instead, he manages a wobbly sort of smirk, and says, “I know, you’re sick of my futon and my dog waking you up at 6AM.”

“Mostly the futon,” Cam says, grinning as he slips into their familiar, easy banter. “You’re a grown-ass man, the hell you doing with one of those still? Get a sofa bed.”

“Hey, I gotta watch my spending these days, don’t exactly have too many more paychecks to look forward to,” Brandon says, trying out a little dark humor. Cam looks like he’s not sure how to respond, so Brandon continues, “You got a ticket already?” 

“No,” Cam says, and Brandon wonders if he would have stayed longer, if Brandon had asked him to. Brandon’s proud of himself for not being that selfish.

“Well, let me know when you book it for, we’ll do a bonfire to send you off,” Brandon says, managing another smile. Cam bumps his shoulder into Brandon's and leaves it there.

—

Brandon makes good on his promise the night before Cam leaves. It's a bit of a small party, with just the two of them and the dog. But they scavenge up some wood, Brandon makes Cam chop it, and build it into a tall tower.

"Something about setting shit on fire makes you feel like a dumb teenager again, doesn't it?" Cam says, grinning softly as he stares off into the fire. Brandon nods and tosses a twig in, just for the simple pleasure of seeing it burn.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Guess we all had our pyro phase." 

Cam snorts. "Try it with four brothers. We almost burnt the house down so many times just fucking around, I don't know how my parents didn't lose it."

Brandon chuckles. There's a bit of a pause there, and…he doesn't really _want_ to get all emotional and talk about his feelings, but something says he's gonna regret it if he doesn't. So. "Don't know how you didn't lose it looking after my sorry ass for months," he says, a bit quiet and not looking at Cam.

Cam elbows him in the side. "Once you remembered how to shower it wasn't so bad," he says lightly. 

Brandon groans. "Don't remind me, okay? Just…fuck. I was in a bad fucking place, okay, and you pulled me out. I'm bad at this, but even if I wasn't…I don't know how you thank somebody for that."

Cam elbows him again, but it's a bit gentler, and Brandon looks up. "That's what friends are for," Cam says. He looks…god. The firelight's dancing across his face, and he looks almost wistful, and Brandon's suddenly aware that he's never wanted to kiss somebody so bad in his whole life.

Which. Is not a thought he's ever had about Cam, let alone one he should be acting on, so he looks away sharply. Brandon feels his face heat up, and he hopes it's too dark for Cam to notice. He clears his throat. "So, uh. What time are you heading out tomorrow, again?" 

Brandon knows the time, but he's casting around desperately for a safer topic, and even though Cam probably didn't see that for the life preserver it was, he takes it anyway. "Four-thirty," he says, groaning about the hour and Brandon falls into a meaningless conversation about logistics with immense relief.

—

They don't say much of a goodbye when Cam actually leaves, given the hour. He knocks on the loft and Brandon mumbles something at him, still mostly asleep, and the next thing he hears is the door shutting behind him. Brandon doesn't fully wake up for another couple hours, by which time the futon's sheets have long been piled into the laundry hamper.

It's quiet in the cabin, with just Penny for company. She looks a little lost too, wandering around and sniffing in corners, like she's looking for Cam. She pads back over to Brandon and whines, and he hauls her onto his lap for pets. "He had to go, baby," he explains to her, even though she's a dog and obviously can't understand. It's for himself, too.

Brandon takes Penny for a walk, comes back and fixes himself some lunch, and just as he's sitting down to eat it, the landline rings. He's expecting Bobby, but instead—

“How’s my favorite hermit doing?” Nick says cheerfully. 

“How did you even get this number?” Brandon says, slumping back onto the couch, grinning despite himself.

“Weaseled it outta Cam,” Nick says, which honestly was a fairly predictable outcome that Brandon is just surprised did not happen sooner. “Look, I’m not calling to interrupt your getting in touch with nature and shit, which, I hope you can touch it by now, it’s been six fuckin’ months—but anyway, we’re having a barbecue for the Fourth with whatever guys are around. It’s summer, so it isn’t gonna be too many. Not gonna be a huge fuss, so I thought maybe you’d want to come?”

Brandon remembers when an offer like that would’ve had him hanging up the phone automatically. That’s still his first instinct, but he pushes through it, and…”Maybe,” he manages. He does miss the guys, and as long as he gets Nick or Cam to warn the younger ones off asking any dumb questions, he can probably get through dinner without a panic attack. Then, forcing himself to act normal, he clears his throat and continues, “You’re gonna make me fly all the way to Columbus for a fuckin’ party, it better be some party.”

“If you’re flying all the way to Columbus for my fuckin’ party, you better shave first, you’ll scare my kids,” Nick fires back, and Brandon laughs. He’s kind of forgotten how funny Nick is, and it just makes him miss him more.

“Man, I’ll understand if you don’t make it,” Nick adds, a little softer. “You’ve been through some shit this year. But everybody’d love to see you, so. Think about it, all right?” 

“Thanks, man,” Brandon says, clearing his throat again. He's definitely not getting all choked up, or anything.

“Hey, what are friends for?” Nick says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brandon says, eager to get off any topic of emotional significance as quickly as possible. He and Nick shoot the shit for a little while longer, and when Brandon gets off the phone, he sticks his sandwich in the fridge and hops in his truck. He needs to go to town and buy a ticket before he loses his nerve.

The thing is. As he drives in, he keeps thinking about what Nick said, and. _What are friends for_. Friends are for this, Brandon supposes—for reaching out even when you push them away. It was a really nice thing for Nick to do, but Brandon can’t help comparing it to everything Cam did. Cam…god, Brandon doesn’t even know how to thank him for the shit he did. He washed Brandon’s _hair_ for him. Cleaned his whole cabin. Showed up, and showed up again, and _stayed_. 

Cam had said ‘that’s what friends are for,’ but Brandon seriously doesn’t know how he can even begin to repay him for all this. The only thing he can think of is to return the favor, to keep showing up for literally anything Cam needs for the rest of his life, because—that’s what you do for people you love, he guesses.

Abruptly, Brandon jerks the wheel of his truck and pulls over on the side of the road. He has to, or else he’s going to crash his fucking truck into a pine tree, because holy shit, Cam is in love with him. And he’s in love with Cam. That’s what the hair washing was about, and that’s why he wanted to kiss him last night, and. Fuck. _Fuck_. His hands are shaking. 

Brandon pats his pockets for his phone but he hasn’t kept it charged in months because it didn’t get signal, and anyway Cam’s still probably in the air. And they should have this conversation face to face, because god, now Brandon _really_ wants to kiss him. He pulls the truck back onto the highway, speeds to town, and buys a ticket for the red-eye out of Anchorage tonight.

Brandon goes home and gets Penny and his phone and nothing else. Packing a bag is gonna take way too long and whatever, if he just drives to Anchorage now he can get a carrier for Penny and a power pack to charge his phone while he drives and maybe a book of word searches to distract him on the plane, and he can’t think of anything else that could be important enough to stop for. 

The flights, though. Those are agonizing. Miserable. He’s desperately glad that Penny’s small enough to ride under the seat in front of him, because it means he can worry about her instead of thinking about what he’s about to do, or how he might get recognized, or like—literally anything. 

It takes for fucking ever, but eventually Brandon lands in Columbus. He gets a rental car, buckles Penny’s carrier into the passenger seat, and drives straight to Cam’s house. He’s exhausted from the travel, and he knows it’s the middle of the day so Cam might not even be home, but—Brandon _has_ to go, as much as he had to get on the stupid plane.

Cam is home, as it turns out. He opens the door, his jaw drops when he sees Brandon, and then Brandon kisses him, right there in the doorway. He swallows up the noise of surprise Cam makes and wraps his arms around him. After a moment of shock, Cam starts to kiss back, and Brandon’s not sure the heavens don’t open up to reveal a chorus of angels or something, for how dramatic this all is.

They break apart after a long, long minute. “Brandon. What?” Cam says, sounding dazed. 

“One second. We should. Inside, but I bought Penny, and,” Brandon trails off. He jogs back to the car, which he left running. Brandon shuts it off, retrieves his dog, and comes inside for real. Fortunately she’s pretty zonked out from all the travel, so he sets her carrier down carefully and turns to Cam, who’s still staring at him.

Well. He deserves that.

“I realized like, a couple hours after you left that—I hope nothing like this ever happens to you, but if it did I’d be right fucking there the whole time. And then I realized that’s not, uh, normal friend behavior, it’s—way better,” Brandon says, with a winning smile. “I’m sure I smell like an airplane and look totally crazy, just…I fucking love you, and I couldn’t wait to tell you that.”

Cam’s beaming at him now, and Brandon’s face is on fire, but he’s also never felt so sure of something in his life. “You just now realized that?” he teases Brandon, impossibly gentle. 

“I’m dumb,” Brandon says cheerfully. But not so dumb that he doesn’t take that teasing for what it is. He steps closer, pulls Cam into his arms again. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and you wanna yell about Brandon Dubinsky with me on the reg, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ungilded)!


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